


A Man Out of Time

by IrisPerea2004



Series: The Saga of the Elder Scrolls [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Elizabeth is the HoK, F/M, Gen, Gods are Cruel, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Martin did not deserve this, Martin is so done, Skyrim Main Quest, Tags Are Hard, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-01-23 07:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21316516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrisPerea2004/pseuds/IrisPerea2004
Summary: Martin wakes up in the middle of Skyrim, two hundred years after he sacrificed himself to call upon the Avatar of Akatosh. It seems that even after all he has done, the gods aren't done with him yet.
Relationships: Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil/Martin Septim
Series: The Saga of the Elder Scrolls [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1544434
Comments: 10
Kudos: 65





	1. Skyrim

_ He hugged her one last time, revelling in the feeling of their bodies twined together._

_ “I love you,” he whispered. _

_ Tears tracked silently down her cheeks. “I love you too,” she said quietly. She kissed him fiercely, before he could speak in return. A thousand might-have-beens flashed before his eyes. _

_ “Go,” she said, weeping openly. “Before I decide you are more dear to me than the entire world.” _

_ He let her go slowly, his heart crying out against the cruelty of a world that could not let them be. Tears stung his eyes as he walked slowly toward his doom. _

_ Dagon ripped through the wall and stood before him, waiting, almost laughing at this tiny human who had the audacity to withstand his might. Martin bowed courteously, as befitted such a mighty opponent. _

  
  


He had not expected to open his eyes at all. He had not expected to be brought back to consciousness by the pain that was drawn all over his body in fiery lines. He jolted, sending a fresh bolt of agony into his chest. Ropes dug into his wrists, and for some reason, it felt as though he had been gagged with a strip of cloth. 

_ I was stabbed there, in my chest, _ he remembered. _ I? Akatosh? We? _

His vision slowly unblurred and things began to slide into focus. Pine trees dusted with white rumbled by, and the cart he was in hit another jolt. He let out a muffled grunt of pain, biting down on the sodden cloth. 

_ Cart? What in the name of the Nine…. _

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake.”

Martin’s eyes snapped to the blond, fair-skinned man sitting acros the cart from him. Broad shouldered and wearing an unfamiliar blue livery, his eyes were more curious than kind, but held elements of both. 

“You were trying to cross the border, right?” the Nord continued. His eyes were bright, icy blue, like rock-beaten mountain streams. “Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us. And that thief over there.” 

Martin’s head was spinning, whether from his strange circumstances, whatever means had brought him here, or the loss of blood and aching pain that left him dizzy; he did not know. He twisted around, staring at his fellow cart-mates, the slumped and grubby man, the fair-skinned and rather chatty Nord, and the tall, noble man bound and gagged like Martin himself. 

_ Imperial ambush. Same as us. Thief. Have I fallen in with bandits then? _

The cart jolted again, sending another bolt of pain through his injured side. 

“What’s wrong with him, huh?” the grubby thief asked, thrusting his pointed chin towards the noble in his cloak of fine feathers. 

“Watch your tongue!” the Nord snapped. “You’re speaking of Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!” 

“Ulfric Stormcloak? The Jarl of Windhelm? You’re the leader of the rebellion.”

_ Rebellion? He hadn’t heard of a rebellion in Skyrim. This was Skyrim? Windhelm was in Skyrim, if he remembered arightly. _

“Oh, gods. Where are they taking us?” It was a whimper, a pathetic, broken whine of a fearstriken man.

“I don’t know where we’re going, but Soverngarde awaits.”

_ Soverngarde. I am in Skyrim. Small comfort, _ he thought bitterly. _ Where is Jauffre when I need him? _

He closed his eyes, trying to remember what had happened. He had become the Avatar of Akatosh, believing, _ knowing, _that he would die. He did not seem dead. 

“Shut up back there!” the soldier in front called. Martin glanced at him, the strangely garbed soldier. He had never seen that armour, on soldier or anyone else.

“No, this can’t be happening. **This isn’t happening.**”

Martin had never empathized so much with a horse thief. He wanted nothing more than to have _ won _ for once. For life to have been actually _ easy._

_ If only, _he thought bitterly. 

The wheels ground against the rough stone of the road, sending jolts up Martin’s spine. The cart rolled through a wooden gate, into a village of thatched houses and Imperial stone.

“Look at him,” the Nord said, his voice full of contempt and dripping with scorn. “_ General _Tullius, the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this.” 

Martin twisted around, trying to catch a glimpse of the tall, proud Altmer on her horse. She caught his eye, and her mouth curled into a sneer.

The cart jolted again, breaking Martin’s gaze. 

“This is Helgen,” the Nord said, wistfully. “I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with the juniper berries mixed in.”

The horse-thief was hunched over, chanting a prayer to the Divines under his breath. The dirt-smeared,, wildeyed man was pitiful sight indeed. 

The cart rolled to a stop, making the horse-thief start with terror. 

“Wh-why are we stopping?”

“Why do you think? End of the line.”

“Get off,” the soldier said roughly. “Down.”

Martin slithered awkwardly down off of the rough-boarded cart, mumbling curses into his gag as his chest and legs protested strenuously. 

“Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm,” someone called as Martin straightened. A tall Imperial stood, with a list in his hand, beside a shorter, steely-eyed woman in a gleaming steel breastplate. She met Martin’s mutely pleading eyes with a contemptuous curl in her mouth. 

“Ralof of Riverwood.”

The chatty Nord stepped up, his blue eyes going icy cold. 

“Lokir of Rorikstead.”

The grubby little horse-thief cowered away. “No! No!” he cried. “I’m not a rebel! You can’t _ do _this.”

He launched himself away, running as fast as he could.

“Archers!” the steely-eyed Captain called, and Lokir fell, impaled by three arrows. 

“Anyone else feel like running?”

“Wait,” the scribe said. He looked from Martin to the list and then back to Martin. “Who are you?”

Martin rolled his eyes, and gestured in an irritated way toward his muffled mouth. 

“Captain?”

Martin felt a long fingered hand on his shoulder, making him instinctively flinch away. He twisted around, to find that the tall Altmer was standing behind him. 

“My dear Captain, I’m afraid he comes with _ us.” _ she said, her exquisitely polite voice sending a shiver down his spine. “You can have your _ fun _dealing with the Stormcloak rebels.”

The captain growled and turned to the priestess. “Give them their last rites,” she commanded.

“As we commend your souls to Aetherius,” the priestess chanted. “Blessings of the Eight Divines upon you-”

“For the love of Talos, shut up and let’s get this over with!” someone called.

Martin felt his stomach drop. _ Eight _ Divines? This was no longer a _ where _ was he. This was now a _ when _was he.

_ Akatosh, _ he thought desperately. _ Nine. Eight. Whatever you are. Why? Why couldn’t it just have been _ simple _ for once? _

The headsman lifted his axe, and brought it down with a sickening sound of dull metal rending flesh. Martin winced and looked away.

Something that sounded unnaturally like a distant roar drifted through the air. Martin stiffened, staring into the patchy, white-and-blue sky. 

He had heard that sound before.

He had _ made _that sound before.

In a split second of premonition, he knew what was going to happen.


	2. A Nord's Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, these are disjointed moments in a story I may or may not get around to writing, so again, I warn you, I skip around a lot.

The great hall of Whiterun was filled to the brim that night, in a grand celebration in Martin's honor. The clean white skull of the dragon that Martin had slain was propped on the Jarl's throne.

The Jarl himself was currently occupied with astounding Martin with the amount of amount of ale Nords could consume. Martin's own mug of mead had barely been touched. When he did drink, he usually prefered to do it in the company of tried friends.

Like the Blades. All of the Blades who had served him--he made a wry face. Even now, he still didn't much care for the thought of being _served_. He set his mead down, his mind only half there. 

_"All hail the Emperor!" Elizabeth had cheered, planting her metal-clad boot on the table and lifting the golden goblet of wine. Martin had met her eyes, the flin that Alzathiri had brought from Morrowind spreading a delightful warmth through his body. The Amulet of Kings burned around his neck. All was well._

His arm was jostled and he was rudely thrown back to the present by the unwashed, drunken Nord that had stolen the mug of mead from beside his elbow. Martin grimaced and made to rise. 

The Jarl, sitting at his other side, looked up at him, his eyes remarkably clear. "You can't leave yet," the Nord roared over the raucous enjoyment. "Have some wine!"

Martin sat down, his face resigned. He raised the mug to his lips, hoping that the wine wouldn't taste as bad as the mead. 

_The fire burned warm and bright, throwing delicious warmth through the Great Hall. Though the drink flowed freely, the atmosphere was not one of drunken revelry, but of war-wearied people who had finally been given a reason to celebrate. Even Jauffre seemed to loosen up a little._

_He felt Elizabeth's warm, calloused hand fold around his, and he looked up to meet her warm, sparklingly silver-blue eyes. She smiled, and for the second time that day, he allowed himself to take her face in his hands and kiss her--_

"TO THE DOVAHKIIN!" Jarl Balgruuf roared, lifting his mighty mug of ale. 

"TO THE DOVAHKIIN!" the other merrymakers echoed. 

Martin wanted nothing more than to go to bed. The sudden emergence of memory at the sweet-bitter taste of the wine on his lips had sunken into his heart and left it grieving. He wanted to go to bed and wake up beside his honey-sweet Elizabeth and Brian.

_The drink must be getting to me_, he realized.


	3. Sky Haven Temple

Sky Haven Temple was all stone and chill, shadows climbing the walls, hiding in the Wall that unravelled yet another prophecy that had sunk it's claws into Martin's life. Even with the torches and fire burning in the grate, it lacked the warmth, somehow, that Cloud Ruler Temple had offered; despite being farther up in the mountains and colder for much of the year.

Maybe it was all in his head, Martin thought. Maybe with more people, it would become more cheerful, feel more like home. He still missed Elizabeth, Brian and Baurus-- and yes, even Jauffre's stiff-but-warm formality, with a fierce ache seated deep in his chest.

The stone cobbles had buckled here and there on the floor, and moss dripped from the walls. The tables, chairs and beds were damp and grew varying fungi; few of which were edible. 

Martin had condemned them to firewood, and sat on the floor. Delphine had argued, perhaps because Martin had been the one who thought of it-- _Don't be uncharitable,_ Martin chided himself. _ Delphine is a fine Blade._

He hadn't enjoyed the bowing and scraping of the Blades when he had first arrived at Cloud Ruler Temple, but now, when he had found a Blade who didn't, he felt resentful of it. It disturbed him greatly.

Esbern filed down the staircase, humming an air Martin didn't recognize, but that hardly surprised him. 

_ Esbern doesn't bow and scrape and 'milord' me either,_ he argued with himself. _I rather like him anyway._

And why would they act like he was a prince? He really wasn't, and had been careful not to speak of his past and what was now _Tamrielic_ history. He knew he didn't exactly act and speak as most did in this day and age, but he hoped Delphine in all of her supreme suspicion, chalked that up to personal idiosyncrasies.

"Martin," Esbern greeted, rather cheerfully. "Excelent morning, don't you think?"

_ I don't think I'll ever understand the Nords,,_ Martin thought wryly. _It's colder than a Thalmor's heart around here._

Aloud, however, he only said; "I'm glad it's to your taste."

Esbern laughed. "Have you talked to Delphine?" he asked. "She said last night that she needed to talk to you."

Martin shook his head. "I haven't seen her this morning."

He was slowly losing his accent, he realized. The older South-Cyrodiil was beginning to yield to a newer, more Nordic pronunciation. The time was changing him, in ways too subtle to stop.


	4. An Old Friend

Martin ducked throught the aged and dusty cobwebs that decorated the corridor, clutching the hipbone and wondering what he was doing here.

_Find my master, _the wild-eyed man had begged, clutching at his robes. Martin had taken pity on him and agreed to look for the master of his. Now he was ducking through the abandoned wing of Skyrim's Blue Palace, searching for someone so powerful he couldn't even think of visiting the Jarl. 

He stepped on a rotten floorboard, and tripped-- 

\--landing hard on his knees in a fog-shrouded, rock-studded place he didn't recognize. A table, decorated with a fine tablecloth and wrought-silver candles sat in the short, tough grass. Two chairs were placed at opposing ends of the table. A tall, white-bearded man sat in the most ornate, and in the other was a weak-chinned, pale man slumped over his plate, playing with his food. 

"…my dear, sweet, homicidaly insane Pelagius! What would the people do without you? Dance? Sing? Smile? Grow old? You--" the elder man pointed to the younger with a fork on which a slab of cheese was speared as if it was a slab of roasted meat, "--are the best Septim as ever lived! Well, except for that Martin fellow, and he--" 

Martin went cold all over. 

"--turned into a Dragon God! That's hardly sportin'." His tone turn slightly more somber and reflective. "I was there for that whole sordid affair, you know. Marvelous time. Butterflies, blood, a fox, a severed head... Oh and the cheese! To die for." 

"Yes, yes, as you've said that many times before," Pelagius snapped without looking up from his meal." 

The old man feigned shock and dismay with exagerated abandon. "How rude! Well, if you're going to be like that I suppose I'll take my leave. Good day t' ya sir. I said good day!"

"Yes, go," Pelagius said despondently. "Leave me to my countless responsibilities and burdens."

He disappeared in a flash of very showy light, leaving Martin and the madman alone. 

"You can come out, you know," the madman said breezily. "I know you're there anyway, so why not take Pelly's seat?"

His eyes were pure white, almost as if he was blind, but something in his face told Martin that he probably wasn't. Sheogorath, for Martin was sure this was who he was meeting with, could probably alter his appearance at whim, and had chosen the blinded eyes to put people off balance.

It worked shockingly well. Martin sucked in a steeling breath before he returned the Madgod's greeting.

"My Lord, he said, bowing at the waist. Disrespect now was not a good idea. "A servant of yours has sent me to look for you, and tell you that you are sorely missed."

Sheogorath's eyes narrowed speculatively, and Martin felt his knees turning to jelly. That expression on a Daedra-- any Daedra but especially this one, was not a good sign.

"Are you... him?" he asked incredulously. "Martin, what are doing here and now?"

"I wasn't aware I had already made your acquaintance," was all he could think to say.

Sheogorath snorted. "Aye, I suppose I'm different now, aren't I? Where's your ladylove and her boy, hmmm?"

His throat constricted. "Dead."

"Pity. She was a good friend, that one; if a tad too serious. But still; pity I never stole her when I had the chance!"

Now it was Martin's turn to look incredulous. "Were you- Are you- The Nerevarine?"

Sheogorath's mad eyes shifted and reformed into golden orbs with cat-slit pupils and then Dunmer-crimson. "Part of me used to be called that," he admitted. "Oh, the things she did to escape Azura! A word of advice-- never bind your soul to that one. No fun at all. Always wants your _adoration_. I just like to play with your mind."

Sheogorath leaned forward. "Oh, do sit. Tell me what in my own name you're doing here," he laughed heartily at his own joke, "and _ then_ well talk about cancelling my vacation."


End file.
